Until Great Bretton Woods to high Capitol hill shall come…

(Yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him?)

Said Malcolm, nay
Had I but power,
Sweet concord’s milk
Into Hell pour
Confound all unity
On Earth
And universal peace,

And still did pray
The educated
Weak and well sedated
To slay the meek
With hands unclean
Washed vainly
Week by week
And mean.

Tyranny’s service
Throughout the land
Their debtors
To prison would remand
The smell of blood
With pressure lower
Courting commerce
Would they cower.

If such a one
Be fit to govern
Spoke with sword
The fine Macduff
Lesser tyrant trade
For better
Tyrant tough
Like diamonds rough
Slain with words
That fortify
For government
That mortifies.

By heat in Paris
The Club of Rome
In capital streets
Fair vermin roam
Stained with spots
From close relations
Subjugating other nations.

What was this wood before us?
Cut every branch down!
That rains of justice
In deluge
Tyrants warm or cold
May drown.

* Macbeth is brief and most place mere murderous ambition in relief. Thus far Roman Polanski best understood the witches and Great Birnam Wood.

Dr T.P. Wilkinson writes, teaches History and English, directs theatre and coaches cricket between the cradles of Heine and Saramago. He is also the author of Church Clothes, Land, Mission and the End of Apartheid in South Africa. Read other articles by T.P..